“It’s Just Hair”

Except when it’s not

In my line of work (writing about ever-changing beauty trends), I tend to take the “it's just hair” approach when someone is contemplating a big chop. I'll never be that friend who tells you not to cut the bangs. “Life is short; cut them! They'll grow!”

This sentiment isn't just a job requirement; it stems from my upbringing with a hairdresser mother. Growing up, she always switched up her style — and mine, too. As I said in a piece I wrote for Prose, I always had “a look” as a kid — never just a cut. From a mullet (it was the 80s) to the "Rachel" from Friends, I was never afraid to try new trends. It grows back.

But what happens when it doesn't?

My most recent concierge client is a VIP client, my mother. Her request: find her an amazing wig. She's three and ½ years into a metastatic breast cancer diagnosis. She's doing really well. She looks great; she's had an excellent quality of life and rarely misses a social beat. (I wrote about her gratitude practice and its effects on her health for Oprah Daily this past fall.)

Over the past few years, my mother has done hormonal therapy, oral chemotherapy, and a milder IV chemo that didn't have too many side effects. But sneaky cancer sometimes finds a way to outsmart the drugs it once responded to, and then it's time to switch up the protocol. So, a couple of weeks ago, my mother started a more potent chemo drug, and the hair shedding began. She’ll lose it all soon, her doctor says. And because she has metastatic cancer and her protocol is indefinite, the hair likely won't grow back, at least not to where it is now (a layered lob with a chic side bang).

Hair loss is emotional for anyone. For a woman, it can be devastating. And for a woman whose identity has been so tightly tied to her hair since she's young, it’s a redefining moment.

My mother has always had a vibrant personality. But before anyone experienced that, they saw her equally vibrant red hair. As a child, her orange hair was on par with little orphan Annie’s. As an adult, it deepened into a rich, penny red hue. My grandfather (also a redhead) affectionately called her “red.” Her hair has even inspired a boat name: My Little Redhead, chosen by my father (also because the boat has red-toned wood floors).

When she was in high school, my mother got her cosmetology license and started cutting hair professionally —further entangling her identity with hair. When I was young, she’d cut hair in our dining room. I'd come home from school and watch her work from the steps, snipping and chatting away with her clients. I always thought my mother was so beautiful (and still do). I remember her glam 80s outfits and makeup, but it’s the memories of her hair that really stand out. I recall her standing in front of the mirror with her hot rollers. And as a hairstylist, she was constantly cutting her strands. “Just a trim to add body,” she'd say. We’d laugh because she was at it again. As her red color faded with age, she started dyeing it herself, too. “I'm going to be 85 with bright red hair,” she'd joke.

Only she stopped coloring it in her late 60s — shortly before she was diagnosed (she's now 73). It was a big change, getting used to my mother without her signature, fiery strands. But as her natural red faded and blended with gray, it settled into a stunning, pale beige shade (that gets compliments, even from young girls, wherever we go). She reinvented her signature look, teaching us that change could be good, beautiful even.

So, we're bracing for change yet again. Last week I sat in Sereen Hair Studio in East Islip as the owner, Nikeya Sereen Burnett, told us everything we need to know about wigs. Burnett, who previously worked at a cancer center, delivered the perfect amounts of education and compassion. My mother was calm, not sad, as she listened. We laughed as she tried on a few wigs. After much consideration, she decided on a human hair wig that will be cut, colored, and styled to look like her current hair. We left feeling comfortable, if not relieved that the process was not nearly as painful as we thought it would be. It was pretty pleasant, actually — a bonding experience I never imagined having.

So now we wait. We wait for my mom's hair to fall out more. We wait for the wig. We wait for this new chapter in her hairstory. And we'll adjust once again. It's just hair, right?